Three Strikes
by Night of the Living Monkey
Summary: And you're out! A vengeful villain brings a thorny end to Gotham's baseball season.


This'll have to count for my yearly Halloween fic. I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

By late October, the main focus of many Gothamites was Halloween. Not so much buying candy or costumes, decorating, or whipping out the horror movies.

More closing the storm shutters, locking the doors and windows, and embracing the Second Amendment. Because Halloween was the closest thing to the Purge Gotham experienced. A wide array of villains, plus an army of juvenile delinquents, turned the end of October into a nightmare.

This year, however, a miracle had occurred and it served as an effective distraction. For the first time in many citizens' lives, the Gotham Knights hadn't finished in a distant last place. They hadn't made Cubs fans feel better about themselves. They hadn't suffered any steroid scandals, betting scandals, or bench-clearing brawl scandals. Nobody had said anything racist to sports reporters. No catcher's pants had fallen off as he attempted a throw. Wild squirrels hadn't take over the stadium, attacking anyone who dared enter their domain.

In short, it was the best showing the team had displayed in at least fifty years. And to top it all off, they'd made it all the way to the World Series. Which would be officially underway in just two days. The first game was to be played in Gotham, and baseball fever was contagious.

For all the people buying jerseys and celebrating, there was one very, very big Grinch looming over the spectacle. And like the Grinch, she was green. At least her wardrobe was.

Poison Ivy glared at the television with a vitriol she usually reserved for major disasters like oil spills and national elections. She had been expecting local news. Instead, she'd been treated what seemed like a play-by-play of every single game the Gotham Knights had won to make their way to the World Series. There was a montage of home-runs, stolen bases, and pitching duels.

And shattered bats.

So many shattered bats.

It was like the Gotham Knights had a vendetta against ash and maple. Ivy's blood boiled as splinters of once-beautiful wood sailed through the air.

Another spectacular bat explosion set Ivy over the edge. Ivy slammed her hand down on the remote, turning the TV off permanently. She had seen more than enough.

* * *

The thought of designing anything of worth, never mind a nefarious plot to disrupt one of America's biggest sporting events, was enough to send most people running to the nearest bar. Ivy was not most people. And to be fair, she wasn't starting totally from scratch. She had a greenhouse full of mutant plants in various stages of growth and development. She just needed to find the perfect specimen.

Ivy strolled through her sprawling greenhouse. Some of the plants appeared normal, like foliage in any garden or park. Other plants swayed rhythmically, sported terrifying thorns, teeth, or razor-edged leaves, or reacted with animal speed to the stimulus of their god entering their domain. Supplicant vines reached for Ivy and a bouquet of daffodils followed her movements with their yellow flowers.

As lovely as all her plants were, Ivy needed something a little stronger than daffodils for her plan. She needed something she could smuggle past stadium security, something powerful enough to cause extreme damage and chaos, and something that could withstand both Gotham's October chill and human weapons.

That narrowed the field considerably.

* * *

In Gotham any- and everything was for sale if the price was right. In a city where everything from human organs to super meth was available on short notice, a ticket to the World Series was pedestrian. There were ticket scalpers a' plenty, and Ivy only had to threaten three of them before she found one in possession of legitimate merchandise.

Now that she had her way in, and her lovely babies were ready to go, Ivy had only a few more preparations before the big game. She dug up a baseball cap Harley had left who the hell knew when, found her warmest, roomiest coat, and then found her sharpest knife.

Ivy slit the interior of the coat all over, so no one spot would bulge noticeably. Into these small cuts she packed her secret weapons. Ivy then examined the exterior of the coat to ensure it didn't look like it was suffering from tumors. As she'd hoped, the coat looked perfectly normal.

Satisfied, Ivy donned the coat and then hid as much of her trademarked red hair as she could within Harley's cap. The late fall weather demanded gloves to complete the ensemble. Ivy patted her pockets to make sure the ticket was safely tucked away and then headed for the door.

The inner city was no place for a woman to bio-engineer killer plants in secrecy, but living miles from Gotham had disadvantages that made Ivy squirm. There was no public transportation in the boondocks, and even driving an efficient hybrid vehicle back and forth to the city still pumped more hydrocarbons into the atmosphere than Ivy wanted to consider.

All the future trees she'd save from being whittled into sticks for men to swing at balls would have to make up for her contribution to global warming.

Gotham was often called a madhouse. When it came to parking during the World Series, it lived up to its reputation. In past seasons, the stadium seats usually sat eighty percent vacant. Given that, there had been no major push to increase parking around the stadium. By the time the miracle season was underway, the wheels of government planning turned far too slowly to do anything in time for a World Series most embittered Gothamites believed would never come.

This parking fiasco left Ivy and thousands of others literally out in the cold. As soon as she stepped out of her car, she wished Harley had left a lumberjack hat instead of the cap. She'd be lucky if her ears didn't fall off from frostbite by the time she walked the marathon to the stadium.

"Damn, did Mr. Freeze break out of Arkham already?!"

"As soon as I have the money, I'm moving to Florida."

"Honey, I told you to dress warmer! Why don't you ever listen to me? Danny, we might be out here all night! How could you forget your mittens?"

"My balls are freezing off!"

Ivy heard all these snippets of conversation and more as she joined the stream of humanity on the move. She tried her best to ignore them, as well as the various body parts that bumped, jostled, and knocked into the back of her head. By the time she'd made it three blocks, she was itching to unleash her floral nightmare prematurely.

Gritting her teeth, Ivy managed to maintain her self-control. She arrived at the security barricades erected around the stadium without causing anyone to sprout lethal vines. Once there, she handed over her ticket. It was scrutinized but ultimately accepted. She was thus ushered forward and given a once-over by security and their hand-held metal detectors. Unlike an idiot down the line who had tried to smuggle in a metal flask to avoid high beer prices, Ivy sailed through security.

Once inside the stadium, Ivy sought the nearest concession stand. She discovered it didn't have exactly what she needed, but it did have a foot-long corndog covered in chili, nacho cheese, mustard, and chopped bacon. Trying her best to ignore that fact, she ordered a small popcorn, which cost slightly less than a respectable steak dinner.

That made pouring the popcorn into the trash physically painful. Yes, the money technically had come from the safe of a CEO who had been pouring his company's toxic waste into the ocean to save a few bucks. But wanton waste was wanton waste.

Empty popcorn box in hand, Ivy headed for a restroom. She casually peeked in to make sure the room wasn't bustling with ladies and their full bladders. Luckily, this early, the bathroom was deserted.

The city hadn't done much about the parking, but at least most of the graffiti had been scrubbed from the bathroom walls, and every stall had a locking door. After latching her door, Ivy hung her coat on a hook that hadn't quite been pulled off, and set about removing her smuggled goods.

Ivy ended up with about two hefty handfuls of seeds. In dim light, the seeds resembled peanuts. She dropped one seed on the floor and toed it behind the toilet. The rest she poured into the popcorn box. She then flushed the toilet and let the water run at the sink to avoid any suspicion before reentering the freezing night.

Like a malicious Johnny Appleseed, Ivy spread her future fruits around the stadium. She tucked the killer peanuts underneath seats, tossed them in random trash cans, and dropped them around any structures of major support. As she walked to her seat—a relatively cheap spot deep in foul territory—she left any stairs she trod littered with the seeds.

The seat was several rows up from the field, but nothing stopped Ivy from walking down to the barrier and leaning over, as many other people were doing. She nonchalantly joined the rabid fans and let a seed drop to the field. When the time was right, it would send roots deep into the outfield.

Ivy strolled the length of her section, sewing seeds as she went. By the time she returned to her seat for good, her popcorn box was empty. Now it was a waiting game.

There was a list of factors affecting seed sprout time that could have stretched around the bases: temperature, humidity, light, pressure, acidity, hull integrity, and a slew more. Ivy knew no two seeds would burst to life at exactly the same time, but that was what she wanted: a progressive attack that left people terrified and disoriented.

Of course, that uncertainty also carried risk. So did the newness of her experiment. Those variables began to make Ivy antsy. She felt like a NASA engineer waiting to see if her work would rocket her to Mars or blow a crater into the launchpad.

The baseball game did nothing to keep Ivy's mind off the impending action. The first inning passed without serious note. There was a single hit from the Gotham Knights, and then they were quickly put down. The Knights' ace pitcher retired the opposing side with ease.

The second inning reminded her exactly why she was there. The batter swung at a sneaky cutter and made contact. Poorly. There was a resounding crack, fans behind home plate ducked, and chunks of bat large and sharp enough to stake a vampire spewed across the dirt.

Ivy grit her teeth as the remains of the bat were unceremoniously removed from the field. A glorious, towering mature tree had been slaughtered for a single minute of action! To make matters worse, the people around her were acting like NASCAR fans witnessing a crash. They whooped and hollered, commenting on how impressive the exploding bat had been.

The last major shards of maple were cleared away and play resumed. The pitcher took his cue from the catcher and wound up to deliver a blazing fastball.

By the time the 100 mile per hour comet was resting in the catcher's mitt, the ground had started shaking. Not everyone noticed at first. The players in the outfield, and fans in home-run territory, were far enough away not to register the mini-earthquake.

Encouraged by a leaky pipe and having had the most time to germinate, the seed hidden behind the toilet was the first to sprout. The tiny vine trailed up the smooth porcelain surface of the toilet. Had anyone been on the commode, they would have had just enough time to jump up and run (but not zip their fly) before the deceptively strong vine crushed the toilet.

The water from the ruptured pipes encouraged the vine to grow and advance. It slithered under the stall door, growing tributaries as it went. These new tendrils wrapped around doors, sinks, mirrors, hand dryers, and the rest of the toilets. Within five minutes the bathroom had become a flooded jungle.

While the first vine was wreaking havoc in the restroom, the second sprouted in a trash bin. Nurtured by the moisture of spilled beer and soda, the vine burst from the plastic bin and began its rampage.

The first few plants did limited damage, and served mostly to scare the holy hell out of anyone nearby. One vine, however, found a crack in the floor and exploited it. Like earth splintering at a fault line, the floor split under the relentless questing of Ivy's creation.

Ivy was finally able to see the fruits of her labor when a seed burst to life in the outfield. The resulting vine skittered across the warning track and spread out across the field. The left fielder looked over, saw a rapidly expanding green monster coming his way, and ran crying toward his dugout.

Chaos and panic spread on and off the field. The remaining players joined the outfielder in running for cover. Some of them sprinted for the dugout, some just said, "screw this, I'm going home" and vaulted into the stands. The latter joined herds of people running for the nearest exit. Which was, given the sprawling nature of the stadium and the preponderance of barricades and metal detectors set up at the gates, a very long, unpleasant run indeed.

Especially when the original bathroom vine found its way into the plumbing. And began to create geysers left and right. Water fountains, sinks, and, of course, other toilets all ruptured, sending freezing water into freezing air and creating thousands of freezing people.

The stands around her emptied, and once Ivy was sure the risk of stampede had past and security had better things like crowd control to worry about, she walked down the row to the fence. Like many a streaker and absurdly drunk fan before her, Ivy hopped over the waist-high barrier and onto the field.

The vines that had been tearing up the turf were thrilled to find their matriarch in their midst. Any vine that Ivy passed stopped rampaging for a moment to enjoy her presence. Once she had moved on, the tendrils went back to their burrowing, climbing, clinging and general destruction.

Ivy strolled to the infield, stepped over the pitcher's mound, and then headed for the Gotham Knights' dugout. The whole team had evacuated, but they'd left their equipment behind. Ivy immediately spotted what she needed.

Most everyone had headed for the hills, but the heavier tripod and stationary cameras had been abandoned just like the gloves and helmets. Ivy had no doubt that, around the country, millions of people were glued to what the remaining cameras were broadcasting.

Good.

She had a hell of a message for that audience.

Ivy stepped out of the dugout and raised the surprise she'd picked up. It was a baseball bat.

The barrel was now studded with leaves and terrifying three-inch thorns.

Bat in hand, Ivy strode to the pitcher's mound. She slowly turned in a full circle, surveying the now-empty stadium. It looked like an Aztec pyramid buried in the jungle for centuries. Needless to say, Ivy was beyond pleased with the results of what had basically been slipshod work. What had taken humans years to design and build she had practically returned to nature in an hour.

Like Babe Ruth predicting his home run, Ivy pointed her bat towards center field. Then she revolved and jabbed it toward third base. Then, assuming more the natural position for a pitcher, faced home and thrust her slugger at the plate.

"I am not responsible for this!" Ivy shouted, knowing her voice would be picked up along with her image. "You, all of you, forced me to act!"

"This," Ivy raised the bat like a sword, "used to be a 40 year old, magnificent ash tree! It sheltered animals, filtered carbon dioxide from the atmosphere, and gave you ungrateful creatures oxygen! And what did you do?!"

Ivy swept the earth in front of her, where earlier the corpse of the shattered bat had lay. "You slaughtered, dismembered, and desecrated these beautiful trees! And then you used the bodies for your own amusement!"

There was no reply from the nearly silent stadium except the rustle of leaves from Ivy's plants. They, no doubt, agreed with every word she was saying.

"But that game's over. This is no longer a baseball stadium, this is a memorial to all the forests sacrificed for 'fun' and 'the American pastime.'"

Ivy took a deep breath after her spiel. She then held the bat aloft again, and with no regard to the saber spikes, rested her hand against the barrel.

"From now on, this is on my team. Just remember that, the next time you exploit nature's beauty." Ivy lowered her bat. She pivoted on the mound and headed toward the overgrown outfield.

Needless to say, after that, Gotham's desperate and futile hopes for sports glory turned to football.

* * *

The End!

Thanks for reading.


End file.
